Before You See Me

The jar was open on the shelf,

cap beside it, left

like they'd just put it back

without care.

I was hunting for a band-aid

but found instead the trade made:

the prescription bottle,

the Chapstick worn to nothing,

the Vaseline half-gone—

the small things that keep

someone from falling too deep.

So this is the work,

this is the ritual that won't shirk:

you apply and you swallow,

you make yourself hollow

enough to seem fine,

to hold the line

between breaking down

and staying in town.

I closed the door.

I said nothing more.

I watched them make coffee,

looking steady,

looking like they were ready,

like they didn't need

these jars

in the dark to feel okay.

But I'd seen inside.

I'd seen them hide

the way they apply

and deny

and try

to get by

on these small acts

of holding on.